


Paradox

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Time Travel, for:mousie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-28
Updated: 2009-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:06:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foreman has come unstuck in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradox

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this mousie](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/448607.html?thread=4243039#t4243039), who won a ficlet at Stump Me With A Line From My Own Fic. Thank you to Little_missmimi and Leiascully for the betas, and to Vonnegut for the conceit.

**Paradox**

Foreman has come unstuck in time.

Once he realizes what's happened--once the denial has worn off under the sheer bewilderment of seventies fashions, and he's stopped closing his eyes to insist that when he opens them all will be as it should be (he's damn stubborn--though not as stubborn as House, which he thinks the world ought to thank him for)--but even that doesn't work. Foreman half-thinks that, Nietzsche-like, he could hate the world into unexistence, but that doesn't seem to work either. He wants this damn freakshow to _stop_. He'd do anything to escape, anything to make it different, but there's nothing he can touch. He's a ghost in his own life, a watcher; he's helpless, and he despises himself in every instant he passes through without so much as a butterfly wing's effect.

There are moments of hope. Instants when he's where (when) he should be. He clings to them, digs in his metaphorical heels, even though he knows by now it won't last. He's lonely as hell for these fleeting minutes. Something as simple as taking a shower or eating a meal in the apartment that he should be living in. Or more actively: mid-differential, shutting down House's insanities; three o'clock in the morning in the labs with Chase and Cameron, running gels (it's about two years too early in his personal timeline, but at this point, he'd take anywhen plus or minus five years).

(Plus six years, he's not so sure about--the future is wavery, and seems to flicker like a silver coin settling to the bed of a running stream, the reflections and refractions playing tricks on his sight. Sometimes he's with Remy, when the Huntington's has manifested in earnest; and sometimes he's not, which makes him feel defensive and guilty even though he hasn't lived the choices that led to an apartment completely devoid of any signs of her. And sometimes, there's an even stranger life that he's not ready to admit might have been his. There's the relentless sameness of a prison sentence he never earned; there's the too-good-to-be-true tenure job at Mercy. And there are moments when he's still in California, in a mid-level Neurology Department position that means nothing, is going nowhere, and frightens him more than being unstuck in time ever could.)

He fights every future, hating every second that slips by without him living it. Maybe at some point he'll stop struggling. (But then again--stubborn.) For now, he's furiously enduring what so many people tried to teach him over the years: living in the moment.

It's 1989 (he's gotten good at guessing), and he's at his alma mater. What will be his alma mater, nearly a decade later. And he's sitting in a bar, drinking a beer with House.

This isn't fair. This isn't even his life. House has wrangled him into living a day that isn't his, and Foreman can't even resent it as much as he wants, because it seems, simply, like exactly what House would _do_. Foreman's sure it's him (his opening salvo was, "Greg House, and no, I don't care who you are. Buy me a drink and shut up."), but beyond that, he never would have known. He looks like Cameron's wistful descriptions of House's yearbook photo. His hair is a dark chestnut brown, uncombed and curling just over the tops of his ears. He's clean-shaven in a way that shows he pays attention and shaves often, with only a hint of five-o'clock shadow coming in around his mouth. The frown lines are there, the dent between his eyebrows, but they're softer. This is a House not yet carved by erosion, the sharp details of age only hinted at. And, of course, there's no cane. House _stomped_ in--he's still stomping, metaphorically now, one hand beating invisible time against the bar, muttering into the beer Foreman bought him (his frustration making no impression whatsoever). Foreman adds another pint to his tab, and drinks in sips, _tasting_. He can _feel_ the glass, the counter, the stool he's sitting on; cigarette smoke grates in his lungs with every breath. Why the hell is this moment real, when all the others haven't been? It's not even _his_.

"Fucker," is the most obvious thing that he can hear House muttering. Since it's not directed at him, Foreman doesn't really care; he hunches his shoulders and stares into his beer, almost in wonder. What changed? Why now--why _this_ now?

He'd thought that this would never end. Fighting or not, he'd nearly started to accept that. He's a fall leaf on a windy street, circling and twisting and living his own moments or other people's. He's fucking _trapped_, and it _sucks_.

So why is _House_ the most real thing he's seen since this started? In the end, that's the thought that makes him chuckle, at the fucking _absurdity_ of it all. If he's really here, then he could do _anything_. Take all the actions that he's never been able to impose on the world before. After so long that "long" lost all meaning, Foreman's not helpless. He could change the fucking future, he finally has that chance. And the only one around to act on is House.

House lifts a finger and points at his empty glass, then nods meaningfully at Foreman. The barman looks over at Foreman for confirmation, which is nice, but Foreman doesn't think he'll be getting out of this moment any time soon. Because that's perfect, isn't it? He comes unstuck in time, only to get stuck (all over again) with House. He rolls his eyes and swallows the last of his beer. "Yeah, two more."

House seems to take this as the invitation he was waiting for. "You know, I don't put out after only one drink."

That, at least, is familiar, and Foreman says (what would be) the familiar response. "It's been two drinks."

"The first one was your idea," House says.

His innocent look works better on his younger face. Foreman can almost feel himself ready to smirk, but he forces the sardonic eyebrow raise instead; at least with the House he knows, that would always be the better plan.

This time, it works _too_ well. House snorts, the one that means he's amused, and says, "Not without dinner, too."

He can't seriously be propositioning Foreman. Foreman looks him up and down incredulously, surprises a look of leering assessment in House's eyes. Fuck, he _is_. Since when? Since it's the past? This can't be Foreman's timeline; this can't be the House he knows. And yet Foreman's here, physical, showing no sign of blinking his eyes open to a time ten years away, before or after. Reckless with the power to do anything he damn well pleases, Foreman waves the bartender over. "And a double order of wings," he says, when the bartender sets their beers down in front of them. Jesus, he doesn't know what the hell he's doing.

House's eyes narrow as he peers at Foreman. He picks up his beer and takes a long swallow, never letting his gaze move from Foreman's face. It's not a challenge. More of an evaluation. Foreman looks away from it, refusing to agree to whatever contract House is trying to set with his eyes alone. Sex, or something even less salubrious. Foreman itches with the need to get out of here. But if he runs--what if he phases out again, back into nothing, where he can see but can't touch?

Foreman can feel House's stare boring into him even as he lifts his glass again, swallows. House always saw more than he should be able to, the bastard. Foreman won't let anything show; and yet, out of everybody in the world, he almost thinks House might be the one to whom he'll (at one instant or another) say, "I'm a time-traveller."

Just to see what he'd do. Just to make something _change_.

The universe hasn't stopped screwing with him; of course it would be House. It could be almost anyone else: Foreman has shown up in his own moments with Claire, in medical school when he thought he was in love, when he nearly asked her to marry him. He's been there for the awkward fumblings with Judy, back when he thought that love meant that he never had to leave high school, because he'd already learned everything there was to know. And Foreman has run into younger, older, different versions of Cameron, of Cuddy, of Thirteen. And there are moments (fainter, but Foreman, uncomfortable, hasn't been able to deny them) with men: naked bodies moving in shuddering, desperate rhythm; a taller, rangier guy coming in to a California apartment and bending down to Foreman sitting on the couch, cupping the back of his head and kissing him in absent greeting; staring out a moonlit window while Chase snores, face-down and almost ostentatiously naked, on Foreman's bed.

But it's House who lifts his glass and says, "To getting kicked out of fucking med school," and somehow, that idea--that fact, one Foreman knew (ever since Weber)--makes his fury boil up.

"Are you expecting me to pity you?" he snaps. The House he knows wouldn't stand for anything resembling the charity of Foreman's good opinion. Contempt burns through him as Foreman stares at House. Being kicked out of med school isn't even going to slow him down. He's brilliant, he's a fucking genius, and somehow that means he's going to wriggle free of the consequences with the same rumpled, unconscious grace that marks his whole goddamn life. Foreman's no longer interested in keeping his silence or his secrets. If this is his last chance, he's going to fucking _do_ something. "You cheated on that test. You're going to hold a grudge against Weber for twenty years."

Surprise fills House's face for a fraction of a second, but then he grins faintly. A gleam of curiosity lights up his eyes. He's probably already dreaming up his revenge. Worse than that, Foreman's just become a puzzle, and House is too interested to bother with simply _asking_ how Foreman knows what he does. "Parasitology is boring."

"I've watched a twenty-five-foot tapeworm get cut out of an unanesthetized CIPA patient," Foreman shoots back.

House gives Foreman a look that's caught between greedy and lustful. "What hospital? When?"

Foreman rolls his eyes, disgusted with House, and glad of any chance to show him up. "In the future," he says, sneering at House but also at the very idea. No one in their right mind would ever believe him.

House tilts his head and considers.

At that moment, the bartender comes back, and dumps a basket of hot wings in front of each of them. House looks down at them, then leers at Foreman. Foreman reads his intentions with a resigned stare. _Two drinks and dinner_. Apparently that's all it takes. That, and making an announcement that's the equivalent of "take me to your leader."

"Dinner" is more like an interrogation. Foreman describes cases even he wouldn't have believed if he hadn't been there. Performing an autopsy on a nine-year-old, only to bring her back to life. Chronic PRCA disguised as acute because of blood-doping self-treatment. Matching father and son equinococosis. House wolfs down hot wings and tosses back beer like it's water, demands details, times. _When_, he asks. _When--?_ Foreman struggles with dates, but he's been unstuck in time so long that he's lost the sharp recall of moments; they slide together, they merge. House snaps when Foreman falters, grunts when Foreman's words come out in machine-gun staccato bursts of accuracy even he didn't know he recalled. Foreman talks until he's dizzy with answering, and he still doesn't know if any of it matters, if acting has changed even one damn thing. When House's food is gone, and he's stolen most of Foreman's, he grabs the front of Foreman's shirt with one hand and gropes for his wallet with the other. Foreman shoves him off and pays the tab (he always seems to have the right currency for the moment he's in, enough for his needs but not a surplus; he'd go insane if he tried to rationalize how or why).

And then they're outside, a cool fall night that seems to be no when at all. House isn't drunk, but his cheeks are flushed, his eyes darker, like Foreman's recitation of diseases and symptoms has been nothing but foreplay to him. He tugs Foreman forward by his shirt again, and there is nothing of the lop-sided, shoulder-first gait that Foreman's used to. He pushes House away again. Fucking House is the last thing he wants, even if the feel--the touch--the realization that he matters in this world--all of it stops him from leaving. House seems to take Foreman's shoves as a challenge. He's grinning--no, _smiling_\--and it's weird to see, but the invasion of Foreman's personal space isn't new.

Lips are. Mouth, and tongue--Foreman freezes, and House snickers, head bent down, breath warm and close. He's high on every case Foreman described; high on _knowing_. It's night, and they're between streetlights, but the dark is clear enough that Foreman can see House's eyes. House might almost be himself--the version that Foreman knows--because in the darkness, he's greyer, a shadow, one hand fisted against Foreman's sternum, his body stooped as he looms over him. "Tell me another one," he says, like a kid demanding just one more bedtime story.

"Not here." Foreman's not ready. He can't do this. He can only change so much--but, fuck, what if it isn't enough to keep him cemented here in time?

House has never sympathized with hesitation. He lunges for the next apartment building's doorway; Foreman expects him to break in, for this to happen in the dimness of some stranger's living room, in the space between the cops being called and a patrol car showing up. But instead, House brandishes a key, and drags him into a room that is as familiar as the Diagnostics office: cluttered, book-strewn; game controllers are tangled in cords, and piles of mislaid laundry and forgotten, half-finished snacks cover the surfaces.

House hauls him in and slams the door. He sets Foreman against the wall and stands back admiringly, like Foreman's a piece of art that he's hung to his satisfaction. Foreman wants to be anywhen else, even watching, even helpless. At his mother's funeral; at his brother's parole hearing; in the moment, eyes closed, mouth tight, before he forced the lock on the Felkers' back door.

Instead, he watches House's mouth, that amused curve; he meets House's eyes, and sees the challenge there. House expects him to say no, to bolt. But Foreman's so damn sick of being a ghost. Now that he can act, he doesn't know how to stop this or how to deny his own desire. And when House kisses him again, it's like falling into time.

It doesn't end when Foreman opens his eyes. He's not somewhen else. He's warm, curious if not quite aroused as House kisses him: it's the same way House conducts a differential, assuming first, treating second, and only forming a new theory when the first one doesn't pan out. Damn House's fucking assumptions. He doesn't know Foreman at all, and he shouldn't think that he does. Foreman _pushes_, gets involved--House's upper arms solid in his grip, his breath loud in Foreman's ears. _This_ is what he likes, hands here, mouth slanted across his just so. And, after a scuffle and a shrugging push, House finally fucking listens, for once in his life.

Foreman should be surprised that he's getting turned on. This is _House_, playful and relentlessly _cheerful_, chest pushed against Foreman's, hands firm on his hips, thumbs digging in and massaging. Jesus, this shouldn't be hot. He's never done anything like this. Not _him_, himself. This isn't who he is. This isn't his lust.

And yet it is. Foreman's hungry for the friction of another body, for the reality of making someone react. When House kneels (no hesitation, no pain), and opens Foreman's pants (a smirk on his face that, for once, Foreman can appreciate), there's an echo of Foreman's desire. Has he wanted this before? House on his knees for him is fucking hot, so maybe. Maybe. Foreman's not doing anything and yet it's like he's in charge, in control. As if _he's_ demanding this, as if _he's_ making it happen. House's hand works the base of his dick, and he raises his eyebrow as he looks up Foreman's torso. Without speaking, he says, _you want this_. Foreman's breathing quickly as he nods. He's doing this. Something different, something that's his; he's involved, inside, no longer cut off from the world by time. House's gaze doesn't waver for an instant as he sucks Foreman's dick in. Foreman's chest rises and falls, he can't stop looking at House's lips where they're wrapped around his erection. Foreman rocks his hips, just a little more than House expects, fucking his mouth and watching as House adjusts, and manages to take him deeper.

God. God, it's good, when House has to close his eyes, when he has to concentrate. Foreman does too, despite his fear that he'll lose the insistent, increasing pleasure if he lets his eyelids fall. His head drops back against the door. His fingers curl in House's hair, guiding the rhythm.

He comes easily. No fireworks, but the heated, needy rush leaves him limp and breathless, lazy even though he barely moved. House stands up, quick to get to his feet, brushing his mouth with the back of one hand. "One more," he says, still on the same damn subject, as if he can charm more improbable stories out of Foreman if he gives him enough orgasms.

"Shut up," Foreman says. He snakes a hand behind House's head and pulls him into a kiss. It's awkward, and House's mouth tastes bitter with his come; Foreman grunts, but insists (_he is doing this_) until House pants open-mouthed into his kiss, and he's forgotten about talking. Foreman needs to have House on his own terms. There's a couch somewhere in front of him, he saw it when they came in, and he walks forward, forcing House back until they reach it. Maybe he'll be stuck here: and even that thought, the idea that his actions will have _consequences_, turns Foreman on.

He strips House's shirt over his head, pushes him down on the couch, not bothering to see if there's anything House might land on. The faster he goes, the more he pushes, the more he might change. Maybe seducing this House, fucking him, will finally end his time-jumping. Maybe that's just his own insanity speaking. He's been slipping too long, with nothing to grab on to and slow the fall.

House's torso is smooth, his chest and arms well-muscled, his stomach lean, like he lives on puzzles and caffeine. Foreman makes quick work of House's fly, yanks his jeans down with barely any attention to his cock. He runs his hands up House's thighs. House shivers when Foreman's hands get near his erection. He's going to do this--suck House off, and tomorrow, he might still be here; _tomorrow_ might mean something again.

But all Foreman can see is House's two perfect fucking legs. House probably runs, bikes, throws himself forward every day like he doesn't know what falling _is_.

"Infarction," Foreman says. He's barely aware of speaking. "Undiagnosed for three days." God, is that why he's here? Is that what he's supposed to say? Foreman shakes his head, wraps his fingers around House's cock, and starts jerking him. Quick, curling strokes, his thumb rubbing over the head of House's cock, then slicking back down to his balls.

"Myectomy," House says. His eyelids flutter, his mouth slackens as Foreman picks up the pace. He's panting, but paying attention. If Foreman tells him, he wonders if House would deny it: that he could ever be that patient, that moron, that unsolved puzzle. "Simple. Boring."

Foreman stops, ignoring House's impatient grunt, and he looks up. House's eyes are different, now, they look the way they do when he's high: pupils fixed and dilated, the frownlines eased, breathing light and hissing-quick. Except House doesn't get high now, or not in the same way. No opiates, just stupid chances, just uncaged brilliance with no direction: just House, without the pain, without the limp.

What act will change what's happening to him? What moment means the difference between this time and the next? Foreman bends down, holding House's cock. He closes his mouth around it. How else can he make House listen? The taste--sweat, musk, salt; House's cock feels somehow warmer in his mouth than in his hand, and firmer. Foreman's never sucked a guy off, but he moves his head, following the clamour of House's heartbeat. House groans, spreads his legs as much as his jeans will allow. It doesn't take long, but Foreman's jaw is already sore when House thrusts up with a sudden, spurting surge.

Foreman gags and pulls back. House reaches down and finishes himself with hard, desperate strokes, face flushed and stomach streaked with his come. Foreman watches (but he hates being nothing more than a watcher), and holds his breath.

If he doesn't say something, he'll be holding his breath forever.

House's eyes open slowly. He's never been known for listening. Foreman presses his lips together; he tastes bitterness. Maybe this was the only way to make House pay attention. "You," Foreman says. "_Your_ leg."

This is why House; why now. Foreman can't help himself, diagnose his own situation, but he can help House. After all these years, why the hell should he? Why should he say a word? To make House's life better? To improve his own? But this is the moment when his life stopped spinning past. Why's not important. It's that he _can_; finally he can speak.

House's eyes narrow, and his hand drops to his thigh--that familiar gesture, massaging away phantom pain that isn't yet there. "When?"

Foreman hasn't had the answer to that question since this started, but he thinks he knows, he guesses: "Ten years."

The moment dissolves.

When Foreman opens his eyes to the present, everything is changed.


End file.
